


peace of a different kind

by halcyonskies



Series: 100Themes: Dean/Cas [90]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Feels Things, Fallen Angel Castiel, Human Castiel, I think?, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonskies/pseuds/halcyonskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't need words anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	peace of a different kind

**Author's Note:**

> 100Themes Challenge - #26: Solitude

Sometimes, it was better to be alone for a while.

Sam didn’t really get it. He didn’t push (because Sam was lightyears ahead of Dean in the _not-a-jackass_ department), but he didn’t understand. Sam could brood and sulk with the best of them, but when it came down to it, he liked to be around people when he was upset. He liked the distraction of human interaction, liked talking things out, or just sitting with someone until he didn’t feel like deep-fried shit.

That wasn’t really Dean’s bag – obviously. It had been proven time and again, but even if it wasn’t all about end-of-the-world calamities and secrets he had to keep from his brother – even if it was just mundane shit, like nightmares or that melancholy feeling all people seemed to get at one time or another – Dean still liked being alone when he was feeling off. For all that he’d rather stick a fork in his eye than talk things out with Sam, he usually worked through stuff just fine in his own head.

Sam accused him of being obtuse when it came to feelings – hell, that was mostly true, even Dean could admit it – but Dean had no problem puzzling through his own. Sometimes he didn’t understand himself – strike that, he usually _didn’t_ understand himself – but he still _thought_ about things, at least. He’d start a meal in the kitchen (and usually one meal would turn into two, into dessert, into lunch-for-tomorrow), or he’d retreat to his bedroom, and just _be_ for a while.

When that out-of-place itch began to roil underneath his skin – misplaced sadness, uncertainty, an existential sort of pondering about what the hell he was doing with himself – Dean retrieved a six-pack from the fridge and left the Bunker behind, calling out that dinner was heating in the oven and Sam better find it before it burned. He didn’t go far – just out back, where the Bunker’s vast garden gave way to wild woodland.

Spreading his jacket out to lay on, he reclined on a hill and turned his eyes up to the cloud-spotted twilit sky above his head.

It had to have been hours later, half-moon already skating closer to center sky, when Dean heard footsteps rustling dead brush a little ways behind him.

“Dean?”

His lips ticked up. Three beers in, he was feeling pleasantly buzzed, nowhere near that fuzzy haze of true drunkenness, and he wasn’t really all that melancholic anymore. He waved a hand, gesturing Cas closer.

“Hey, Cas. Wanna sit with me?”

Cas did. He grunted a little as he laid down – mortality had given him all those minute aches-and-pains humans grappled with on a daily basis – and then one side of his body was pressed up against Dean’s, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. Long, calloused fingers tangled with his own, unprompted, confident of not being rejected.

They breathed together.

And just like that, Dean felt like himself again. 


End file.
